


The Eternal Rocks Beneath

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Graduate School, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, M/M, Poetry, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this is the one where Jared and Jensen are grad students at the fictitious Southern U.  The poems CMM reads are songs from Ryan Adams' album <i>Jacksonville City Nights</i>.  Jared and Jensen each quote Emily Bronte's <i>Wuthering Heights</i>; title from same source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eternal Rocks Beneath

Jared is in way over his head. 

Chad, naturally, thinks this is very funny. “What the fuck, Jay-Red? At what point did _Foucault: Beyond the Panopticon_ sound like shits and giggles to you?”

Jared looks down at his schedule mournfully. “Never, ever let me drink and register again, Chad.” He snatches the printout from Chad’s hand. “What mind numbing horrors did you end up with?” But Chad’s still wearing that stupid smile that makes Jared want to smack his face, and Jared knows before he even reads that Chad managed to score himself a decent schedule for their first semester of grad school. “Two writing workshops and _The Poetics of the Buffyverse_? You have got to be kidding me. I didn’t even see that class. Way to stretch yourself there, douche.”

“I’m an MFA. I have to take workshops.”

“And lust over Eliza Dushku for a grade.” Jared is not bitter. He’s really not.

“Well, you did sign up for _Women’s Domestic Fiction of the Victorian Age_ ,” Chad points out helpfully while yawning. “That class sounds awesome.”

“Shut it, jerk,” Jared says and puts his schedule on the fridge with a Spongebob magnet the previous tenant must have left behind. “Let’s finish unloading our crap from the truck. I want everything unpacked before class starts next week.”

@@@

Jared has no appetite for breakfast the morning of orientation. He can’t remember the last time this happened to him. He thinks he distantly recalls skipping dinner once when he had the flu, but that was years ago. Chad seems completely unfazed by how much their lives are about to change and how easily they could screw it up, stuffing his face with two poptarts at once and spraying crumbs all over Jared when he talks.

“Come on,” Chad says and drags the back of his hand through the sprinkles on his lips. “I want to get there early and scope out the pussy.”

Jared and Chad sit in the back and watch the conference room fill. Most everyone seems to know each other already, talking and laughing easily with each other, and Jared tries to tamp down the nervousness he can feel rising in his belly. Two girls hover in the doorway, looking as tense as Jared feels, so he figures they must be new too. Jared waves them over and the brunette gives him a grateful smile. “I’m Sandy,” she says. “And this is my friend Alona.” 

Jared digs his elbow into Chad’s ribs before Sandy notices him checking out her tits, and says cheerily, “Jared. And this guy’s Chad.”

When the clock rolls around to eight, a pretty redhead stands up behind the podium and calls them to order. “My name is Danneel Harris,” she says, “and I’m the president of the English Graduate Student Body. Welcome to Southern U. I thought it might be nice if we spent some time getting to know each other before the profs show up and start cramming information down our throats.” She smiles and Jared finds himself relaxing. This is no big deal. Just your standard meet and greet. Nothing to freak out over. Yet. “Why don’t we all introduce ourselves and say a little bit about our areas of academic interest. Tom, let’s start with you.”

Tom stands up and Jared blinks. He’s used to being the tallest guy around but Tom’s got legs for miles and a grin like baseball and apple pie. Jared thinks the English Department should put Tom on the recruitment poster, give Biology a run for its money. “I’m Tom Welling and this is my second year in the MFA program. I mostly write short stories, but right now I’m working on a cycle of poems about the sawmill on county road 334.”

The person to Tom’s left stays seated to introduce himself. He’s completely bald and is wearing sunglasses even though it’s ass o’clock in the morning and he moves his hands languidly when he talks. “My name is Michael Rosenbaum. Death interests me. As does melancholy.” 

“And beer,” interrupts the guy next in line.

“That too,” Mike says.

“I’m Steve Carlson,” says Interrupty Guy, “and mostly I just want to write songs, but when I have to, I write the occasional short story.” Steve’s voice is a little scratchy, a little twangy, and Jared has no trouble imagining him onstage in a smoke filled dive.

The last guy in that row of chairs stands awkwardly and scrubs his hand over the back of his neck a few times. “My name is Jensen Ackles and I’m a Victorianist,” he says before pushing his glasses further up on his nose. Jared thinks this is adorable. “I’m ABD and I hope to defend my prospectus before Thanksgiving.” Jensen sits back down and stretches his legs out under the chair in front of him, his shirt just barely rucking up over his waistband as he gets comfortable. 

Jared tries not to stare at that little strip of skin between Jensen’s jeans and his button down. Why did nobody tell him that grad school attracts the kind of eye candy that’s on display here this morning? He would not have dicked around for a year with Chad at his uncle’s liquor store if he’d realized all the hot guys were into higher education. And okay, yeah, Jared’s glad he had a year to save up cash and wind down from the chaos of senior thesis, but damn. Jared hasn’t seen this many good looking people in one place since, well, ever. 

Jared jumps when Chad kicks him in the shin. “Dude,” Chad hisses. “You’re drooling. And it’s your turn.”

After Jared introduces himself and mostly succeeds at not visibly wincing at Chad’s attempts to be suave, Jared’s attention starts to wander. He hears the basics: Sandy wants to know more about medieval mystics and Alona is all stoked about the American frontier. Jared thinks that Danneel is writing her dissertation about ribosomes or some other cellular process that has fuck all to do with literature as far as he knows, but he can’t be sure because even if he had been listening closely he doesn’t think he’d understand a single word she said. Instead, Jared watches Jensen drum his fingers absently on his knee—the black bracelets on his wrist, the dull shine of a silver ring, the smear of blue ink on his index finger.

Then Danneel claps her hands and says, “We still have a few minutes on the agenda. Why don’t we all form a circle?” and despite his anxiety over meeting the professors in the department, Jared is thrilled when their early arrival saves him from playing the kind of excruciatingly stupid icebreaker games he thought he’d left behind at summer camp. 

The chair of the department, Dr. Kripke, is not at all what Jared expected. He doesn’t look old enough to have a Ph.D., much less chair an English department, and he’s wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and battered old Levis with Doc Martens. “You are here,” Dr. Kripke says, “because you are the best and the brightest. Three times as many graduate students as you see in this room are enrolled in the English department this fall, but we can only afford to give assistantships to those who stand a cut above the rest. That’s you.” Dr. Kripke pauses and looks at each of them in turn, his hands gripping the lectern and his gaze strangely intense. “Don’t disappoint me.” And Jared doesn’t feel that pressure at all. No siree. Then Kripke checks his watch and gives them a weird little wave before booking it out of the conference room.

The rest of orientation is kind of a blur. Dr. Morgan and Dr. Ferris pass out handouts on facilitating group discussion in the classroom and each gives a presentation on the duties of a teaching assistant and various ways to deal with troublesome students, respectively. Jared takes notes furiously, his hand cramping as he writes, and when Dr. Morgan finally dismisses the group, Jared thinks he might be sick. “That’s it?” he says to Chad. “That’s all the teacher training we get?” 

Chad shrugs. “How hard can it be?”

@@@

Jared hits Ctrl+Alt+Delete again and watches as exactly nothing happens on the monitor of his office computer. “Come on, you stupid piece of shit,” Jared says.

“Sweet talking won’t get you far with that dinosaur.” Jared looks up. Jensen is slouched against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets and an amused smile on his face. “Nobody’s computer works except Chad Lindberg’s, and that’s only because he hacked the requisition orders for this building last year. You’re gonna have to invest in a laptop like everybody else.”

Jared sighs. He was looking forward to not schlepping his computer on campus every time he has office hours, but no biggie. “Anything else I should know?”

“Don’t leave food in your office unless you like mice. Physical plant turns the radiators on in October even though it’s still hot as fuck outside, so layer. And if Mike ever asks you to participate in an experimental reading, say no.” Jensen pauses to breathe and before he starts talking again, he licks his lips—just this tiny swipe of a very pink tongue across that full bottom lip—and Jared is mesmerized. “Oh, and we’re TA-ing together this semester for Jim Beaver.”

“Cool,” Jared says. “As long as you don’t mind babysitting my ass. I’ve never taught before and I am completely lost, man.”

Jensen sits down in the chair across from Jared’s desk and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I don’t mind. In fact, that’s why they pair us up this way, so every newbie has somebody to show him the ropes. Besides,” Jensen says, “you took enough notes yesterday, you ought to be teaching me a thing or two.”

Jared ducks his head to hide his pink cheeks, absurdly pleased that Jensen has been watching him. 

Fortunately Jensen mistakes Jared’s blush for another kind of embarrassment. “Dude, seriously. Don’t sweat it. Everybody freaks out a little before they teach their first class. You should have seen me. I almost hurled in the bushes behind Bondurant Hall that morning. But being a teaching assistant is really not a big deal. All you gotta do is show up to Beaver’s lectures and then lead three discussion sessions later in the week. You’re not even responsible for content. Just make them talk about what he says, and you’ll be fine.”

Jared relaxes a little. Jensen makes this sound so easy. Maybe Chad will be right for once in his life.

“Here you go,” Jensen says and hands him a folder. “Sample syllabi and class activities that I’ve used in the past. This should get you through the first few class meetings. If you have any questions or need some help with something or just somebody to rant to, don’t hesitate.”

Long after Jensen leaves, Jared is still thinking about the constellation of freckles on Jensen’s nose, the dimple in his cheek, the warm hazel of his eyes.

@@@

When Jared gets home from teaching his first discussion section, Chad is laying out on the roof of the laundry room. Their tiny apartment complex is shaped like a U with the laundry room nestled in its crook directly below the railing of the second floor balcony. Chad’s got a _Star_ magazine and a bag of Doritos and three Coronas on ice in a mop bucket beside him; Chad takes his tanning seriously. Jared hops over the railing and snags a beer.

“How did it go?”

Chad pulls off his sunglasses and fucking beams at Jared. “Oh, man. I think I have all of Chi O in my nine o’clock. This one so-ho, Sophia, has the sweetest little tramp stamp, which I saw because her shirt was about the size of a napkin, and the perkiest rack since Alexis Bledel sophomore year.” Chad kneads the air in front of him in a way that Jared would probably find offensive if Chad didn’t look so stupid doing it.

“Do the words moral turpitude mean anything to you?” Jared says.

Chad scrunches up his face like he’s thinking really hard, which Jared doubts. “No. Does it involve feces?”

“You cannot screw your students,” Jared says very slowly and with great emphasis, as if he is speaking to an idiot. Which, of course, he is. “It’s against the rules.”

Chad clutches his magazine to his chest in horror, newsprint streaking his heavily oiled pectorals. “Seriously? No joke?”

“No joke, man. They will kick your ass to the curb for that shit.”

“Goddamn it. Water, water everywhere, dude.” Chad pops open another Corona and slugs down half the bottle in a few gulps. “What about you? See any strapping young lads you’d like to bone today?”

“I didn’t really notice. I was too busy trying to, I don’t know. Mold the minds of the future of America.”

Chad snorts. “Whatever. You’re too busy daydreaming about a certain bowlegged Victorianist to notice the emo twinks in your section.”

Jared reaches out and casually twists Chad’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Chad yelps and sloshes beer all over the pictures of Angelina Jolie’s skeletal frame in his lap. “Keep your perverted hands off me, Padalecki,” he says and crosses his arms tight.

Jared grins and swallows down the last of his Corona, watching as the sun slips behind the Jr. Food Mart on the corner.

@@@

The third class Jared signed up for is Eco-Poetry and Jared loves it. Dr. Morgan is genius—just the right balance of lecture and discussion, and even if the guy is a total hardass, he’s also wickedly funny. Jared never really read much poetry before this course but he’s finding a new appreciation for the genre—the serenity of Mary Oliver, Gary Snyder’s focus on the working man, the aching hostility of Judy Jordan. Right now, Jared is hanging at the coffeehouse after class with Chad, Alona, and Sandy and trying to explain why Robinson Jeffers’ “Roan Stallion” is so freaking awesome.

“Dude, it’s a poem about a chick fucking a horse,” Chad says.

Jared rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, but its more than that. It’s Leda and the swan, man. Mary and Yahweh. It’s about the limitations of the human juxtaposed with the boundlessness of the divine, how language just breaks down when they merge, how you can never textually render that kind of encounter.”

“Horse fucking,” Chad mumbles into his latte.

Sandy giggles and writes down the name of the poem on a napkin before tucking it into her messenger bag. “How’s Foucault?” she says.

Alona groans. “Don’t ask.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to pass that class,” Jared says. “I can barely keep up with the reading.”

“Seriously. Let’s not talk about it,” Alona says. “I can’t afford to go to school if I lose my assistantship.”

The entire table is silent for a long minute and then Chad scoops a fingerful of whipped cream from the top of Alona’s mocha and lewdly sucks it off. “Okay, then,” he says. “A little change of subject. Who’s Doing Who 101. For instance, Jared is doing no one. As usual.”

Jared smacks Chad on the arm with Alona’s Norton anthology. “And you’ve been getting so much action lately, Cassanova.”

Chad waves his hands dismissively. “How would you even know? You spend so much time in the library, I could be fucking half the dance squad in the living room on a daily basis and you’d never even notice.”

“I hear that,” Sandy says. “I’m too busy and stressed to date. Although, I think that adjunct, Chad, is gonna find the stones to ask me out pretty soon.” Chad makes a face like he’s confused and Sandy clarifies, “Chad Lindberg. Other Chad.”

“And what will you say?” Alona says.

Sandy purses her lips. “I don’t honestly know. The hair is ridiculous, but Other Chad is pretty much a genius and he’s funny and I might as well admit it. I’ll probably say yes.”

Jared nods at Alona. “What about you?”

“Boyfriend back home. But I do have juicy departmental gossip to share.” Alona leans in and lowers her voice. “I heard that Morgan and Ferris have an open marriage and that he’s seeing some instructor in the Music department.”

“No way,” Chad says. “That sly dog. I think I have a new hero.”

Sandy offers, “Steve is apparently dating some townie guy, but I don’t know what his name is or anything.”

“What about Jensen?” Jared asks and holds his breath.

“I don’t know,” Alona says. “Danneel is desperately trying to get into his pants, but so far he’s not taking the bait.” 

Chad glances at Jared and then asks, “Because he’s not into Danneel or because he’s not into chicks?”

Sometimes, Jared kind of wants to kiss Chad. In a completely platonic way. It’s not that Jared is in the closet. He’s so not. Sandy and Alona both know he’s gay and Mike straight up asked him his sexual preference in Eco-Poetry on the first day so probably the whole department knows by now. Jared doesn’t hide who he is. He just isn’t ready to go public with his massive crush on Jensen. Not yet. 

Alona shrugs. “Hell if I know. My gossip fu completely fails me on that one.”

Then Chad’s jailbait walks in with three of her sorority sisters and for awhile, Jared is too distracted by convincing Chad that a one night with Sophia is not worth his assistantship to wonder about Jensen.

@@@

“Wait, wait,” Jensen says. “Listen to this summary of “The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether”: 'He would be scared out of his mind to be in an environmeny with all those crazy people . Especially around a women named Madame Joyeuse who wants to believe that she is a chicken and literally crocks like a chicken and flaps her arms or wings as if she is a real chicken. He would enjoy sitting around a bunch of women with their bosoms out while eating.'”

Jared clutches his sides and tries to stop laughing. Jensen is killing him.

“Or this one about Hester Prynne. 'She is even described very well as a tall young women with a very nice figure body, which is easy on the ears.'"

“Stop it, man,” Jared pants out. “Really. I can’t take it.” And he doesn’t mean the student papers. Jensen laughs with no holds barred, the corners of his eyes crinkling up and his glasses sliding down to the very end of his nose. Jared very much wants to slide them off the rest of the way and kiss Jensen until he can’t even remember who Hester Prynne is. “We are never gonna finish grading these if you don’t quit it with the dramatical readings.”

Jensen wipes his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” They grade for awhile in companionable silence, Jared sneaking glances at Jensen every third paper or so. Finally, Jensen stretches and pops his back, his knees knocking into Jared’s accidentally. Jared absolutely does not get a secret thrill out of rubbing knees with Jensen. No way. “Come on, dude,” Jensen says. “This shit can wait. We’re going out.”

Jared tries not to clap his hands with glee. “We are?”

Kane’s is a total dive—pool tables and a dart board and a tiny scuffed up stage in the back corner. The joint is full of townies and there’s only domestic on tap and Johnny Cash croons on the jukebox. Jared loves the place instantly.

Mike is holding court at the far end of the battered slab of wood that serves as a bar, one arm slung around Tom’s neck and the other gesticulating wildly in the air. The bartender, a short guy with a trucker cap crammed down over long hair, waves to Jensen when Tom points them out. “Jenny,” he calls out over the dull thrum of music and conversation. “Who’s your boy?”

Jensen threads his way through the people crowding the tables and bellies up to the bar. He hooks a thumb in the bartender’s direction. “Jared, meet Christian Kane, owner of this fine establishment and Steve’s better half. Chris, meet Jared Padalecki, my TA partner this semester.”

Chris studies Jared intently for a minute like he’s trying to figure something out and then he shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Any friend of Jensen’s is a friend of mine.”

“So, Jared,” Mike says, drawing intricate circles in the air with his cigarette, “Fuck or Die—me, Tommy, or Jensen?”

Jared opens and closes his mouth a few times. Jensen is blushing down into the collar of his T-shirt, which is freaking precious, and Chris has his eyebrow raised like Jared’s answer to this stupid game is somehow important. Fine. The whole hazing thing is so ninth grade, but whatever. Jared cocks his head to the side and bites his bottom lip like he’s really considering his options. “Sure as hell wouldn’t be you, Rosenbaum,” he says after a few beats. “I’ve read your poetry. I don’t want to fuck a dude who cries when he comes.”

Tom snorts beer all over Mike’s shoulder and Chris pours Jared a double shot of Jaeger on the house and after ten minutes, Jared starts to feel like he’s known these guys all his life.

Jared stays longer than he means to, until the bar is empty except for the five of them. Chris locks the door behind the last customer and shuts off the jukebox and then he pulls out a guitar from under the bar and starts to play. “Steve’s not here, so you’re on harmony, Jenny,” he says and the sweet melody of their voices blended together is stuck in Jared’s heads for days.

@@@

Jensen looks like shit, which Jared didn’t think was possible. He has dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow and Jared thinks he’s lost weight since he saw him last week. Dr. Beaver is lecturing on _Moby Dick_ this class period—the symbolic marriage between Ishmael and Queequeg in particular—and normally Jared hangs on his every word because Doc B knows early American like nobody’s business, but Jared’s too busy trying to keep Jensen’s ass out of trouble to pay much attention.

“Jensen,” Jared whispers as Jensen slumps forward in his seat. Any second now, Doc B will notice that Jensen is drooling his way through the lecture and Jared really does not want to find out what the guy is like when he’s pissed off. Jared kicks Jensen in the shin and Jensen starts awake, his glasses askew and his cheek bearing the imprint of the zipper on his messenger bag.

“I’m up, bitch,” Jensen mutters.

“Jerk,” Jared whispers back and grins. Jensen manages a weak smile in return until they notice that Doc B is glaring at them both from behind the podium at the front of the auditorium.

 _Oh, shit._ Jared writes at the top of the notes he’s been taking. Jensen clenches his jaw, that tiny muscle in his cheek twitching, and Jared’s almost too nervous to notice how unbelievably sexy this makes him. Jared kicks him again, softer this time, just a little nudge of his foot, and Jensen relaxes.

After class, Jensen squares his shoulders and walks to the front of the classroom, Jared trailing behind. “I’m sorry . . .,” Jensen begins, but Doc B interrupts him.

“Are you defending your prospectus tomorrow, Ackles?” Doc B asks.

Jensen nods.

“This is why you can’t keep your eyes open in my class?”

Jensen nods again.

Doc B sighs and smacks Jensen upside the head. “Ask for a day off next time, idjit. You look like death warmed over. Scares the children more than Melville.” He points a finger at Jared. “You. Get this boy something to eat before he dries up and blows away.” And then Doc B gathers his notes and stomps off, mumbling something that Jared thinks sounds suspiciously like, “Dumbasses,” as he goes.

@@@

“I have no idea,” Jared says and snitches a drag from Jensen’s Camel. Sandy makes a face at him and Jared sticks his tongue out at her. “Chad is uncharacteristically closemouthed about his writing. He’s never let me read any of his poetry. All I know is he spent last night on the roof of the laundry room with a twelve pack of Coors and his sketchbook, so who knows what he’ll read.”

Jensen passes the cigarette back to him and Jared tries to ignore the heat that curls in his belly when their fingers accidentally touch. Jensen’s been touching him a lot lately, a hand on the small of Jared’s back when they’re stuck walking in a crowd, shoulders and elbows jostling in the movie theater, and once—gloriously—Jensen’s thumb on the corner of Jared’s mouth after a slice of Alona’s lemon meringue. Jared thinks Jensen is flirting with him but he can’t be exactly sure and he’s not ready to risk Jensen’s friendship to find out.

“Oh my god!” Sandy squeals and covers her hand with her mouth. 

Chris is handing off the microphone to Mike who is dressed like, well, nothing Jared has ever seen before. The lenses in his glasses are red and he’s wearing an honest to god, straight out of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, smoking jacket. He puffs on a long ass cigarette in a mother of pearl holder and his poetry is written in silver ink on a sheaf of black construction paper. Mike blows out a long plume of smoke that twines dense and purple around his face and then he reads.

“‘Apocalypse in the Year 2010’  
Black Black Black Black Black Black  
Black Black Black Black Black Black . . .”

“How long do you think he’ll keep going?” Jared whispers.

Jensen shrugs. “Mike once wrote a poem of five syllables that went on for three minutes with miniscule pauses for breath.”

Ten minutes later, Mike takes a bow and steps off stage and the crazy thing is, he held the crowd’s attention the entire time even though he all he did was repeat the same word over and over again in exactly the same tone of voice. Jared guesses Mike was going for some kind of Gertrude Stein vibe—how repetition changes language—and Jared can’t believe how well it works. The word black sounds alien and unsettling by the time Mike is done with it.

“Mike Rosenbaum, ladies and gentlemen,” Chris says and then Chad takes the stage. Chad seems nervous for once, his eyes huge under the lights. “Give it up for Chad Michael Murray.”

Jensen whistles and Jared stomps his feet and makes a ruckus over the polite applause of the crowd until Chad clears his throat pointedly. “This is called ‘The End,’” he says into the sudden quiet. 

“I don’t know the sound of my father’s voice.  
I don’t even know how he says my name,  
But it plays out like a song on a jukebox in a bar  
In the back of my head  
Till it’s worrying machine.  
And in the cotton fields  
By the house where I was born  
The leaves burn like the effigies of my kin  
And the trains run like snakes  
Through the Pentecostal pines.  
Filled up with cotton and dime store gin,  
Jacksonville, how you burden my soul.  
How you hold all my dreams captive.  
Jacksonville, how you play with my mind.  
How my heart goes bad  
Suffocating on the pines in Jacksonville.  
The end.  
All the cars are lined up on a Saturday night  
With a sky full of nothing but moon.  
And I lose my reflection in a bottle of wine  
Until the morning comes down  
And I ain’t nothing but blue.  
At the diner in the morning for a plate of eggs  
The waitress tries to give me change. I say,  
“Nah, it’s cool. You just keep it.”  
And I’m reading my news.  
I start thinking about her  
And I wonder if anybody here besides me  
Has any decent secrets.  
Jacksonville, how you burden my soul.  
How you hold all my dreams captive.  
Jacksonville, how you play with my mind.  
Oh, my heart goes bad suffocating on the pines  
In Jacksonville.  
The end.”

Jared’s jaw drops. He doesn’t know quite what he expected of Chad but whatever it was involved a hell of a lot more scatological humor. This is deep and real and so unlike anything Jared has ever heard come out of Chad’s mouth that Jared is floored.

Sandy shakes her head. “I never thought he had it in him.”

“No shit,” Jensen says and passes Jared another drag.

The applause goes from polite to fucking impressed and Chad smirks into the crowd like he owns them now. And Jared guesses maybe he does.

“This last one is called ‘Withering Heights,’” Chad says.

“I can be taught, but I’m not learning  
Over and over I lose.  
I make mistakes to get so sorry.  
I can’t unwind like the yarn from a spool.  
I’m a little shaky, gotta learn how to fight.  
The moon shines on the boulevard.  
Baby, let’s ride.  
If you gotta look back, don’t look down.  
Our love went cold and turned to ice.  
It’s hard to see the ground  
From the withering heights.  
I can go on, but I won’t bore you.  
Lucky in life, not in love.  
I make mistakes like anybody,  
Anyone foolish to love me that much.  
I’m a little shaky, gotta learn how to fight.  
The moon shines on the boulevard.  
Baby, let’s ride.  
If you gotta look back, don’t look down.  
Our love went cold and turned to ice.  
It’s hard to see the ground  
From the withering heights.”

Two lines in, Jared stops watching Chad and starts watching Jensen instead. Jensen has a strange and fragile look on his face, the one people get when some stranger knows more about them than they know about themselves, the recurring expression of the English major as he reads, the one that says, _That’s me, exactly,_ and _How did you know?_ When Chad slips the microphone back in its holder, Jensen turns to Jared and his expression slowly opens up into something uncomplicated and happy.

@@@

“And what do you think of Jeanne de Sonnaz, Jensen?” Dr. Ferris asks.

Jensen leans forward in his chair. “It’s hard to know what Ouida means by her character. In novel after novel, and her essays as well, Ouida denigrates marriage and women in general. It’s easy to think she’s a complete misogynist.”

Jared interrupts. “But the text seems to suggest the reader should admire Madame Jeanne even though she’s the villain. I mean, she gets to smoke and curse and sleep around and all Vere gets to do is thank Zouroff every time he metaphorically bitchslaps her.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Jared. I was just getting to that part. Even though she’s the villain, Madame Jeanne has so much more agency than Vere. Vere is really a caricature of womanhood, this unbelievable Patmore ideal that Ouida constantly undercuts even as she elevates it.”

Dr. Ferris glances at her watch and shuts her book. “Good work, people. _Aurora Floyd_ for next time.”

Jensen seems in no hurry to get anywhere and Jared doesn’t want him to leave yet so he pokes Jensen in the ribs and says, “Why Victorian? Why did you choose that time period?”

“‘Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest, as long as I am living! You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered _do_ haunt their murderers. I believe—I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I _cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!’”

Jared’s mouth goes dry when he realizes that he’s about to kiss Jensen right in the middle of Bondurant Auditorium and he doesn’t even give a shit who sees. Jared thinks he’s waited long enough. Jensen’s eyes go dark and heavy lidded when Jared leans in and they’re almost close enough to share breath when Tom flings open the door and announces, “Who just published a story in _Playboy_? That’s right, bitches. Party at Mike’s!”

Later that night when Jared is a little bit drunk and a hell of a lot horny, he sneaks into Chad’s room and filches his copy of _Wuthering Heights_. Then he jerks off, slow and sweet, while reading Cathy’s deathbed speech and praying that Chad never finds out that Emily Bronte is his new spank material.

@@@

The humble abode of Drs. Morgan and Ferris is lined with wall to wall shelves of first editions and bizarre looking abstract paintings that Jared is sure cost more each than his parents’ home.

“Holy shit!” Alona says, running her finger down the spine of _A Light in August_. Jensen seems fascinated by the three volumes of Hardy over the piano that Steve and Chris both are visibly restraining themselves from touching. Personally, Jared is head over heels for the buffet. He fills his plate with cheeses and smoked meats and olives and snags a glass of wine and plants his ass in the most comfortable easy chair of all time. Everybody else gets with the program shortly after and pretty soon, a couple dozen people are eating and drinking and generally having an awesome night.

At some point, Dr. Morgan must realize Chris is dying to play his piano because he cuts off the stereo and pushes Chris onto the bench and for the rest of the evening, Chris and Steve play the funniest and bawdiest drinking songs Jared has ever heard. Doc B even dances with Dr. Devine, which Jensen thinks is so funny, he cons Chris into playing a slow love song to freak them out, but they just move in closer and keep on dancing without losing a beat. Other Chad finally makes a move on Sandy and they suck face on the stairs like it’s prom night until Mike pulls out his digital camera and threatens to make them the new viral video.

When the gouda runs out, Jared decides he needs a cigarette so he snags a Camel from Jensen’s jacket pocket and goes outside to light up. Before long, Jensen plops down beside him in the porch swing.

“Stealing my smokes?” Jensen says before sparking up one of his own. The night is cold, stars stretched out in the sky for miles, and Jared is content in a way he hasn’t been for a very long time. He flicks his cigarette out into the street and then he leans over and kisses Jensen.

Jensen opens up for him immediately and Jared licks into him, fists his hands in Jensen’s jacket, pressing closer to him until all he can feel is the wet heat of Jensen’s mouth and the warmth of his body.

“Jesus, Jay,” Jensen says when they come up for air. “I’ve wanted that so long.”

Jared draws a ragged breath. “Come home with me, Jen.”

Jensen grins, this wicked slice of teeth that makes Jared harder than he’s ever been in his life, and then they’re pealing out of the driveway in Jensen’s Impala. 

Jared leaves a message on Chad’s cell: “Grades were due today. Go fuck Sophia. Do not come home. Repeat. Do not come home. I will have to kill you.”

Jensen laughs and throws Jared’s phone on the floorboard and hauls him across the parking lot and up the stairs to Jared’s apartment. Jared finally gets the door unlocked and then Jensen’s sucking on his neck and running both hands under his sweater and Jared thinks he’ll die if he doesn’t get naked right the fuck now.

Jensen is beautiful naked—all lean muscle and sinew—and Jared cannot believe how lucky he is. Jensen makes the sexiest noises when Jared mouths at his hipbones, when he laps at the head of his cock, when Jared pushes wet fingers into him.

“Please, please,” Jensen pants out and Jared swallows him down. When Jensen comes, his ass clenches tight around Jared’s fingers and his grip on Jared’s shoulders is hard enough to leave bruises.

Jared keeps his mouth on Jensen’s dick until it starts to soften and then Jensen pulls Jared up and kisses his swollen lips and wraps his legs around Jared’s waist. “Fuck me, Jay,” he says and Jared does. Jared doesn’t last long, just a few quick snaps of his hips and he’s coming, but afterwards they kiss until the sun makes hatch marks on the wall through the blinds and Jared falls asleep with his face mashed into Jensen’s shoulder blades. 

@@@@

“It’s snowing!” Chad yells. “Get your asses out here.”

Jared pauses _The Fellowship of the Ring_ and pokes his head out of the apartment door. Fat flakes, the kind that stick, are drifting down steadily and blanketing everything in white.

“Merry fucking New Year,” Chris says and shoulders past Jared.

Mike fills up the mop bucket with beer. “God is making the ice,” he says. “He wants us to drink.”

Jared can’t argue with that logic.

They sit on the roof of the laundry room—Chad and Tom and Mike, Chris and Steve, Jared and Jensen—and watch the world turn blank and new. Jensen puts both his hands in Jared’s back pockets and when they kiss, Jared sees that Jensen’s eyelashes are frosted over with snow. Jensen’s nose is icy on Jared’s cheek and his lips are chapped and Jared has never been so happy in his entire life. 

Chad lights up some Roman candles and as sparks melt furrows into the snow at their feet, Jared looks at Jensen and thinks, “‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’”


End file.
